


thirty seconds or a lifetime

by phanatics



Series: kurodai week 2k17 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: After Party, Aged-Up Character(s), Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Quidditch, Established Relationship, KuroDai Week, KuroDai Week 2017, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Quidditch World Cup, honestly this was just an excuse to write about my Dream Quidditch Team, i cant write parties well cause i dont go to them, let kuroo and daichi Rest, so many almost kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanatics/pseuds/phanatics
Summary: Kuroo can feel Daichi’s cherry wood wand in the pocket of his suit trousers, pressing against his leg through the layers of fabric, and he smirks to himself.“Is that your wand in your pocket or are you just really excited to see me?”Daichi groans into his ear. “Wasn’t funny the first time, Tetsu, and it’s still not funny now. Next time you use that line on me I swear I’ll hex you.”“Babe,” Kuroo draws back, putting a hand against his chest in mock heartfelt appreciation. “You’re so good to me.”(Day 2:sports swap au/ same high school au)





	thirty seconds or a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> embracing the "sports swap au" by writing about the sport i know best: quidditch
> 
> just to note in case i missed any details for this, the japanese national team is:
> 
> sawamura daichi – chaser  
> michimiya yui – chaser  
> futakuchi kenji – chaser  
> kuroo tetsurou – beater  
> bokuto koutarou – beater  
> oikawa tooru – seeker  
> ushijima wakatoshi – keeper 
> 
> okay but japan canonically has an "outstanding reputation for quidditch" thanks pottermore and apparently at mahoutokoro they have such high intensive training sessions and thats why they all have such great quidditch prowess wow i love being a nerd guess u learn something new every day

The midday sun is blinding.

That’s the first thought Kuroo has as he emerges on his broomstick to the roar of 100,000 spectators, wind whistling in his ears. The second thought isn’t exactly a thought, more of an overwhelming feeling of  _awe_ , an  _oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening_  kind of feeling as he and the rest of the Japanese National Quidditch Team do a lap around the stands, names being called one by one. They’re nothing but streaks of red and white across a multi-coloured sea of spectators, barely-there figures in a wave of sound.

“Firstly, we have team Japan! In the lead we have their Captain, Ushijima, closely followed by Sawamura, Michimiya, Futakuchi, Bokuto, Kuroo, and Oikawa!” The enthusiastic commentator pauses, and the sheer noise of the audience crackles like static in Kuroo’s ears. “Team Japan has been highly successful in the build-up to this final match, winning each round so far by at least 200 points! Will they be able to keep this winning streak up?”

There’s nothing more exhilarating than playing on home turf. He might be a little biased, but Kuroo thinks that Japan’s National Quidditch Stadium is one of the nicest he’s ever had the opportunity to play on. The sun bathes the grounds in warmth, and the sakura that completely surround the stands merge to create a ring of rippling pink, petals occasionally flying away to float on the wind. As Kuroo flies, he catches sight of his reflection below him in the koi pond that stretches the five hundred foot span in place of a regular grass pitch, flanked by the hoops, standing tall like sentries. There’s an elegant wooden bridge bisecting the pond, joining the two sides of spectators together; the referee already stands in the middle of the bridge, next to the two foot wide hole that stores the Quidditch balls, stark against the surface of the bridge in her black and white robes.

Japanese yosei hover around the pitch, curling long, serpentine bodies around the raised foundations of the stands. Their scales reflect in the surface of the koi pond, sending light refracting round the stadium like a daytime discotheque. Some of the yosei spirits have taken on the form of Western fairies and they float serenely, white robes billowing around them like clouds and jeweled diadems glistening and flickering with their movements.

The Japanese mascots are regal, composed, unlike the Italian bisciones; the opposite team’s mascots seem to radiate fury and murder, and Kuroo has to admit that they’re freaking him out a little. Their eyes glow red and they spit flumes of fire that match the azure colour of their bodies, and they writhe violently on the other side of the pitch. They have the same coiled bodies of the yosei but none of the serenity; these ones are lean, mean, and baying for blood.

Kuroo grins at his mirror image in the pond and dips down to graze his hand against the smooth surface of the water, creating a small tidal wave of spray from the velocity. Kuroo revels in the rush of adrenaline as he spirals into the air, just for the sake of showmanship, before diving down again to join his teammates as they land, one by one, on a levitating platform dedicated to team Japan.

“Now on the pitch, we have the Italian Quidditch Team! Their captain, De Luca, takes the lead, followed by -”

Kuroo blocks out the booming voice of the fervent commentator to focus on his teammates. They’re huddled together in a circle, backs to the spectators, focused on each other only; he slings an arm around Bokuto’s shoulders, on his left, and Sawamura’s waist on the right, leaning in intently to listen to their Captain.

Ushijima clears his throat. As Captain, it’s his duty to make the pre-game speeches, but at this point all of them can predict what he’s going to say. He adopts the same spiel every time.

He’s heard it all before, but the general consensus is that they  _are_  going to win today. There’s no question about it. They’ve trained for months to get here, and there’s nothing in their way that’s going to stop them from taking the World Cup title. Ushijima finishes his speech with a concluding nod and they break apart. Yui immediately slaps her hands to her cheeks, leaving red finger marks imprinted across her face; none of them flinch. They’re used to it. Oikawa is standing apart from the rest of them, casually stretching his arm across his chest as he toes the edge of the platform. However, there’s nothing casual in his gaze; he’s scanning the area, thinking about practicalities and tactics, and as he swings to stretch his other arm, Kuroo can see the glint of steely determination in his eyes. The calm before the storm.

Bokuto and Futakuchi are doing some kind of weird handshake that involves a lot of bumping chests and grunting, hyping each other up and Ushijima is talking quietly to their coach, face serious and hands tucked behind him, the epitome of calm composure.

And Daichi. Daichi is stood right next to him, face impassive and still as he looks out across the pitch. The Italian team is stood on an identical platform, floating at the base of the stands opposite them, looking serious as they talk among themselves. Kuroo squeezes Daichi’s shoulder and he gets a soft smile in return as the Chaser tilts his head up to meet his gaze. The soft smile reserved just for him, leaking with fondness; the smile that spreads all the way to his eyes, adding friendly flare to dark, dark brown.

“We’ve got this,” Kuroo tells him resolutely, nudging him with his hip. Daichi just nods determinedly and hip checks him back. They don’t need to wish each other luck; luck won’t do anything for them at this point, but confidence and honed skill will.

A whistle blows, loud enough to echo, and that’s their cue to start. They mount their brooms, Kuroo and Bokuto grab their Beater bats, and the Japanese team flies down to the bridge in seamless formation to stand dutifully in a line as the referee launches into a pre-game speech.

“Alright, boys and girls,” she addresses both teams in English. She has choppy, shoulder-length blonde hair and a manic look in her eye. “Let’s keep this game nice and fair, shall we? We all know the rules, but just to clarify; no Blagging, no Blocking, no Cobbing, no Blatching, no Flacking – and well, you get the idea.” Her smile turns feral and she brings the whistle back to her lips before anyone can protest.

“Mount your brooms!”

The noise of the crowd has hushed, and Kuroo can hear the faint sound of the cicadas chirping in the trees outside of the stadium because of how quiet it’s suddenly become; a breeze whistles past his ears. There’s a count of three and the whistle shrieks again. Kuroo pushes off of the bridge and the rest of his team scatter, already dropping into planned formation as they rise, gaining speed. He hears the whistling noise of the balls shooting upwards alongside them. Michimiya is the first Chaser to reach the Quaffle, and the game begins.

There’s no precedent; no warm-up, no build-up. It’s ferocious from the very start.

Italy plays dirty. So Japan fights back dirtier.

One of Italy’s Beaters is tailing Kuroo like a pesky insect, keeping close enough that it’s distracting but far enough that he can’t be accused of foul play. Every time a Bludger comes whistling by, the Beater swings his bat to try and hit it in Kuroo’s direction, sending him zigzagging off course to avoid getting a concussion.

As Kuroo flies, he turns an eye to the other players. There’s a flurry of exchanges between the different Chasers before Michimiya gains possession of the Quaffle again and promptly gets shoved by Italy’s Seeker. She accidentally shoots over the pitch boundary, and as the whistle blows she’s forced to surrender the Quaffle to the opposing team with murder written on her face. Kuroo finally gets rid of the other team’s Beater by retaliating and hitting a Bludger with deadly precision back at him. It catches him on the arm, just where he wanted it to, and the Beater swears viciously at him in Italian as he flies off to annoy someone else. Kuroo circles the pitch, swooping in to whack any Bludgers in his vicinity, searching for a gap in the mass of players where he might be needed.

It’s difficult to tell what’s happening, even to his trained eye. While Japan is known for their speed, Italy’s unprecedented aggression in their attacks is brutal, and the Quaffle exchanges hands faster than the booming commentary can keep up.

There’s a frustrating ten minutes of back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the Quaffle not straying close to either goal. Kuroo chances a glance at Ushijima, a solitary figure hovering in front of Japan’s goalposts all the way on the other side of the pond. He’s tense, hunched over his broomstick – he’s expecting an attack.

There’s a multitude of shouts as Futakuchi suddenly breaks away from the group of players in the middle, Quaffle tucked under his arm. Daichi streaks out just behind him. As he reaches Italy’s goalposts, he executes a Reverse Pass, and Daichi catches the Quaffle and throws at one of the hoops, scoring the first point of the match so quickly that Kuroo almost misses it. Kuroo lets out an elated whoop and swings his broomstick round as Daichi circles the goalposts to head back into the fray.

“And Japan score! 10 – 0!”

They only gain momentum from there.

Kuroo doesn’t think when he’s playing Quidditch. He doesn’t  _need_  to think. He runs on instinct and adrenaline, but the rest of his team does, too, which is what makes their passes so faultless, their defence so impassable, their interactions efficient and razor sharp.

They always know what each other is going to do two steps before it actually happens.

Every time Japan scores, Italy get angrier. They match their skill with sheer aggressiveness, and take back just as many points as they lose.

Oikawa had pulled a Wronksi Feint not long after the match had started, taking a nosedive straight at the koi pond below them. He’d pulled up at the last second, leaving the Italian Seeker to fall straight into the water, sending up an immense splash.

The Seeker had flown back into the sky, sodden and snarling, her eyes blazing with fury.

Kuroo loses track of time. He only thinks in the give-and-take of the Quaffle, the heaviness of the Bludgers as they collide with his bat, the subsequent cheers and boos of the spectators.

“And Italy scores again! That makes the score 310 – 280 now, in favour of the Italian team. It’s a very close match, folks!”

He’s dripping with sweat now. Italy had called two time-outs now, and Japan one. The last time-out had seen Oikawa casting Cooling Charms over them all; it hadn’t done anything for the perspiration, but at least he’s not overheating anymore. His muscles tremble a little as he grips his broomstick, bat poised at his side. It normally doesn’t take Oikawa this long to find the Snitch, and the fact that Italy has scored more goals than them sets him on edge.

He’s flying in a wide arc, ready to help by hitting a Bludger in the direction of the Italian Chasers, when Oikawa finally sees the Snitch.

The dive is so sudden – so steep. Oikawa is nearly vertical, slipping forwards on his broomstick as he stretches downwards. Kuroo spots a flash of gold on the surface of the pond before it disappears again – but Oikawa is locked in on it, and Kuroo knows that there’s no stopping him now.

The Italian Seeker is desperately trying to keep up with him, but she’s no match for Oikawa’s skill in flying. He weaves in and out of the raised foundations of the stands, dipping and spinning, gaining momentum and distance on the fluttering Snitch; he’s unbeatable. Kuroo is still a little in awe of his skill, even after training with him for years.

There’s a moment where the entire stadium seems to hold its breath. Oikawa’s pointer finger brushes the metal body of the snitch; it dances from his grasp, but he just pushes harder, further, until his fingers stretch to grab it, crushing delicate wings in his vice-like grip.

He’s caught the snitch (of course he’s caught the snitch. He’s Oikawa Tooru, most prestigious Seeker of their generation. Kuroo never doubted him). Oikawa spirals into the air, Snitch held tightly in his gloved hand, raised in triumph. He’s laughing, and Bokuto streaks over to tackle him in the air, whooping loudly, as the commentator announces the end of the match.

He could flip off the Italian Beaters as he flies past, but even he isn’t that rude, and he refrains, restricting himself to just the thought.

He’s the last to land back on their team platform and immediately gets dragged into the huddle by a laughing Yui. They’re all piled on top of each other, yelling nonsensically, and Kuroo’s pretty sure there are one or two tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and when he catches Sawamura’s eye they share a small, secret smile before they get swept up in the riot again.

Ushijima is presented with the cup itself and he holds it, chin high, back straightened, and chest puffed out. Not proud in the same noisy way Oikawa and Bokuto are prone to, but proud nonetheless. Kuroo slaps him heartily on the back as they line up for the press to take photos. A silent thank you; a silent ‘well done, Captain’.

As camera flashes blind them and reporters keep fighting for their attention, he tests the name out in his mind. Winners of the 2018 Quidditch World Cup; yeah, it sounds pretty good.

It’s only when the trembling in his legs starts to spread through the rest of his body does he actually realise how tired he is. A glance to his right sees Daichi looking pained further down the line as reporters continue to bombard them. He excuses himself, slipping out of their group and passing by Daichi to grab his arm, dragging him away with him while everyone is still distracted by the uproar. They leave their broomsticks in a pile on the platform.

He ducks down into the tunnel that they flew through earlier, a passageway between their team-allocated changing rooms and the inner section of the stadium, pulling Daichi along behind him. As soon as they’re out of sight of any spectators he slips his hand down Daichi’s arm to intertwine their fingers and he matches the unimpressed look shot his way with a smug grin of his own. Daichi shifts, but doesn’t pull away.

Kuroo takes that as his cue to flop against Daichi dramatically and Daichi groans, staggering under his weight. Kuroo just laughs, nuzzling into the back of his neck happily; they’re both still flushed from exertion and damp with perspiration, but he doesn’t care.

“Good job today,” he murmurs into the shell of his ear. Daichi stops trying to shove him off and instead turns his head so that they’re nose to nose. “Thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself.” Kuroo bumps their foreheads, sickeningly affectionate, and Daichi’s eyes fall closed as he leans in.

There’s a loud shriek behind them and they both startle, instinctively jumping apart. Daichi accidentally elbows Kuroo in the ribs as he springs away and he rubs the sore spot, pouting. They both look around, cautiously, but there’s no one in sight.

“That was...”

“Weird? Yeah.”

They share a look, share a startled laugh, before Kuroo is pulling Daichi down the corridor again; they’re the first ones back to the changing room and Kuroo corners Daichi immediately.

“Hey,” he addresses him softly, nudging him up against one of the white-washed walls, but he’s still beaming as he loops a hand around the back of Daichi’s neck to draw him closer. He’s heady from the excitement, can still feel the pump of left-over adrenaline in his veins.

“Hey, yourself.” Daichi is looking up at him through his eyelashes, coyly. Teasingly. There’s a streak of dried blood on his cheek and Kuroo absentmindedly runs his thumb over it before leaning down with the full intention of pressing their lips together in their own personal, quiet victory.

The door to the changing room slams loudly as Bokuto throws it open in that dramatic manner that only he seems to be able to achieve, yelling something about fouls and punching someone. He stops, comically wide-eyed as he sees Kuroo and Daichi, millimetres apart, before hastily shouting an excuse and gets caught between bowing in apology and backpedalling back out the door he just burst through.

Daichi purses his lips and steps away from his boyfriend, ducking around him to get his practice bag instead, still too embarrassed about public displays of affection to finish what they started.

Kuroo shrugs. Later, then. They have the time.

“You can stay, Bokuto,” Daichi calls towards the door and Bokuto slams through for the second time, looking relieved.

“Sorry, guys!” he addresses them, loudly, like he does best. “I didn’t want to interrupt but! We just won the Quidditch World Cup! And now we gotta party!” Futakuchi bursts in on his heels, whooping loudly and the two of them bump fists excitedly.

Kuroo slumps down on the bench, boneless from exhaustion, as the rest of the team trickle into the room. Yui sticks her head in momentarily to yell in excitement, before she heads to the room next door to change. Futakuchi has a broken nose that he’s clearly forgotten to fix and many of them already have bruises forming on their arms and chests as they shrug off their heavy red and white robes, but they’re happy. The atmosphere feels lighter, more relaxed than it has in the weeks leading up to this match, and even Oikawa’s being hospitable towards Ushijima for once, putting his hand on his shoulder and leaning in to talk in a quiet voice. They change in relative silence, but its silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Their coach comes in a few minutes later to congratulate them, telling them rest up for a few hours and clean up before later getting called down to celebrate in the evening. Kuroo props his chin on his hand, elbow resting on his knee, and shares a look with Daichi across the room; he thinks they’re on the same wavelength when Daichi looks disgruntled at the prospect of having to socialize at the end of such a long day. Kuroo just wants a long nap.

“Come on, boys,” Yui swings open the door to the changing room again, breaking the lull. She’s already changed, practice bag slung over her shoulder as she stands in the doorway, peering into the space. “I think we all deserve some rest.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a large tent set up in the valley between the Quidditch stadium and the Sengoku-era castle in the distance. It’s lit up red and white, and streams of light sporadically shoot into the air like silent fireworks, illuminating the surrounding sakura, making them appear pink even under the silver light of the moon. Kuroo can hear music and laughter as he approaches and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers.

It’s dim inside the tent as Kuroo ducks through the flap, and a lot more spacious than it looks on the outside. It’s also crowded, and not just with people. He’s pretty sure that there are pixies zooming around with trays of drinks balanced on their tiny hands, baring their teeth in menacing glee as they offer out alcohol to the guests. There’s a woman standing at the makeshift bar with a tiny occamy on her shoulder, nibbling at pieces of meat that she holds near its mouth. Its iridescent scales glimmer in the low light, and it could be considered beautiful, until it tears into another piece of meat with unbridled ferocity, sharp beak making an efficient job of its meal. Kuroo makes a mental note to stay away from it for the rest of the evening, and he slips off in the opposite direction, making his way through the throng of people and scanning the crowds.

There are torch holders floating along the fabric walls of the tent, glowing blue and purple and pink, and long shadows flicker on the walls as people talk and laugh and dance. The arrays of guests are a mixture of magic users dressed in traditional, cultural robes and others in sharp suits and modern fashion. Kuroo’s wearing a suit himself, black and white and plain, and it’s nothing compared to the extravagant tuxes and dresses he can see just from looking around. There’s live music coming from a group of wizards set up on an improvised stage, swinging around guitars and drumsticks and a set of bagpipes. Kuroo doesn’t know them, but he lets the beat wash over him anyway as he snags a flute of something alcoholic from one of the trays as it passes him, sipping periodically.

There are a lot of important Ministry businessmen there who helped co-ordinate the event, from all over the world, but Kuroo must admit that he doesn’t know most of their names. He just stands, awkwardly nodding and smiling as they congratulate him and enthusiastically shake his hand. People he doesn’t know keep slapping him on the back as he slinks through the crowds and he tries not to wince at the ache in his muscles.

Kuroo doesn’t want the praise right now. He just wants Daichi. And maybe another drink.

It’s easy enough to exchange his already empty glass for a new one. The alcohol makes him feel more at ease, and warmth spreads through his muscles as he takes another sip, searching the room. He’s suddenly struck by an idea, a positively genius one in his loose state, and he pulls his wand from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointing it in a vague direction.

“Accio Sawamura Daichi.” He flicks his wand, and nothing happens. He’s vaguely disappointed, and he’s about to set off again when there’s a hand on his shoulder.

He spins to see Daichi behind him, surveying the crowd with a furrow in his brow before looking back up at him, tightening his grip on Kuroo’s shoulder as he does so.

“No, it didn’t work,” he cuts in when he sees the excited look growing on Kuroo’s face. “I just happened to be approaching. Did you want me for something?”

“’Did you want me for something?’” Kuroo repeats mockingly. “That’s cold, Daichi, maybe I was just missing the company of my boyfriend. We haven’t seen each other in so long.”

“It’s been four hours.”

Kuroo ducks down to press a secret kiss to Daichi’s temple. “Practically an eternity,” he mumbles, already in a better mood just from having Daichi at his side. He can tell that Daichi’s already got alcohol in his system too, because he doesn’t stiffen at the display of affection, only humming contentedly and leaning against Kuroo. They’re standing against one of the walls of tent and can see everything that’s happening. Kuroo’s lost sight of the woman with the occamy and he’s vaguely concerned.

Kuroo suddenly catches sight of a pissed off-looking Seeker storming their way. “Here comes trouble,” he whispers to Daichi, who lifts his head off his shoulder and laughs quietly.

Oikawa comes up to them with an angry furrow in his brow and a bottle of elderflower wine cradled in the crook of his arm, guarding it like it contains the Elixir of Life. Kuroo has a suspicious feeling that it might be near-empty, based on Oikawa’s inability to stand straight.

“What’s up?” Daichi asks him.

Oikawa curls his lip in a sneer. “Waka-kun doesn’t know how to let loose.”

Kuroo and Daichi exchange a look. “What’s he done now?”

“He’s asking me about our new training regime for next season! We literally  _just_  won the World Cup, he’s actually  _insatiable_.”

Oikawa looks slightly worse for the wear. His hair is mussed up, eyes unnaturally bright and dress shirt half untucked. His tie is undone around his neck, and as Kuroo looks closer he can see that there are hundreds of tiny golden snitch designs whizzing around the fabric, causing the silk to ripple before Kuroo’s eyes. He watches, entranced as they speed around, each so intricately detailed, never bumping into each other.

“Nice tie.”

Oikawa glances down and brightens immediately, sour mood completely vanishing. “Thanks! I got it made especially.” He fingers the fabric. “There’s a witch who used to live in my hometown and she now does wizarding fashion, and her designs are so cool, right? She didn’t go to Mahoukotoro so I don’t think you’d know her, but feel free to ask if you ever want her to make you one of these bad boys.” He flicks the end of the tie at Kuroo’s face before waltzing off, swaying his hips slightly tipsily.

Daichi looks mildly impressed. “I have no idea how you did that, but well done.”

Kuroo flashes him a smile. “It’s all thanks to my natural charm, babe.” Daichi scoffs and flicks him behind the ear before pillowing his head onto Kuroo’s shoulder again, nose pressed to his jacket. Kuroo can feel Daichi’s cherry wood wand in the pocket of his suit trousers, pressing against his leg through the layers of fabric, and he smirks to himself.

“Is that your wand in your pocket or are you just really excited to see me?”

Daichi groans into his ear. “Wasn’t funny the first time, Tetsu, and it’s still not funny now. Next time you use that line on me I swear I’ll hex you.”

“Babe,” Kuroo draws back, putting a hand against his chest in mock heartfelt appreciation. “You’re so good to me.” Daichi shoves him but Kuroo just turns to grab him by the waist, spinning the two of them round and laughing. He can hear Daichi start to laugh too, albeit reluctantly, but he counts it as a victory anyway.

Kuroo gets Daichi to dance with him for a little bit, but exhaustion is clearly taking its toll on them both, because they’re too tired to do much more than sway vaguely in time to the tempo of the music. Instead they spend most of the evening slumped on a two-person sofa that they’re both a little too large for and making snarky comments to each other about the wizards and witches that pass by. Kuroo does appreciate the grandiose celebration just as much as the next guy, and he’s glad that their victory is being so widely celebrated, but he’d rather party tomorrow, when he’s rested and his eyelids aren’t drooping every few seconds.

He lazily scans the tent for his teammates, but it’s difficult to see through the mass of bodies. He can definitely  _hear_  Bokuto, somewhere to the left, cheering drunkenly, and he thinks he saw Yui earlier, slipping off into the shadowy recesses of the tent with a girl he didn’t recognise.

Futakuchi is very clearly the most drunk person in the room. He’s slumped over in an ornate wooden chair in the corner, rosy-cheeked and smiling placidly. He keeps stroking the arm of his seat and his mouth is moving soundlessly, whispering words that no one else can here and Kuroo doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing when Futakuchi leans down to press a sloppy kiss to the top rail.

It’s almost a sweet moment, the way he caresses the wood, until Kuroo starts to feel uncomfortable by the display of such weird affection.

“Do you think someone should stop him?”

Daichi stirs beside Kuroo and follows his gaze. He spots Futakuchi and startles, before laughing. “Nah. He looks like he’s having fun, let him be.”

Kuroo feels like he has to avert his eyes at this point, because he’s just outright disturbed now, and he feels like he’s intruding on an intimate moment. He sinks further down into the sofa and presses his thigh against Daichi’s.

“We’re really boring, aren’t we?”

Daichi hums. “Maybe. But are you having fun?”

“Yeah.” Kuroo smiles softly at the top of Daichi’s head, which drooped onto his chest about half an hour ago and hasn’t moved much since then. “I’m having a good time.”

“Then it doesn’t matter if we’re boring.”

A pause.

“Daichi?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Daichi huffs out a soft laugh and he lifts his hand from Kuroo’s waist to run his fingers through the hair at the bottom of Kuroo’s neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> that was a shit ending my bad
> 
> i got sidetracked trying to search for good mascots for the two quidditch teams and spent a good hour just browsing various japanese myths and tbh thats like my ideal version of a saturday night
> 
> honestly this was so fun to write because im such a slut for harry potter and im just really excited by wizard fashion i want oikawas snitch tie (also that witch he was talking about is yachi lol isnt that cute i like to think yachi makes a big name for herself in the wizarding fashion industry)


End file.
